e after my old
neighbor, with whom I had spent the day so agreeably in former times,
dining always on the choicest delicacies of his kind-hearted wife. When
I drove up to the door, the house seemed twice as old as formerly; the
peasants' cottages were lying on one side, without doubt exactly like
their owners; the fence and hedge around the yard were dilapidated; and
I myself saw the cook pull out a paling to heat the stove, when she had
only a couple of steps to take in order to get the kindling-wood which
had been piled there expressly for her use. I stepped sadly upon the
veranda; the same dogs, now blind or with broken legs, raised their
bushy tails, all matted with burs, and barked.

The old man came out to meet me. So this was he! I recognized him at
once, but he was twice as bent as formerly. He knew me, and greeted me
with the smile which was so familiar to me. I followed him into the
room. All there seemed as in the past; but I observed a strange
disorder, a tangible loss of something. In everything was visible the
absence of the painstaking Pulkheria Ivanovna. At table, they gave us a
knife without a handle; the dishes were prepared with little art. I did
not care to inquire about the management of the estate; I was even
afraid to glance at the farm buildings. I tried to interest Afanasy
Ivanovitch in something, and told him divers bits of news. He listened
with his customary smile, but his glance was at times quite
unintelligent; and thoughts did not wander therein--they simply
disappeared.

"This is the dish--" said Afanasy Ivanovitch when they brought us curds
and flour with cream, "--this is the dish--" he continued, and I
observed that his voice began to quiver, and that tears were on the
point of bursting from his leaden eyes; but he collected all his
strength in the effort to repress them: "this is the dish which
the--the--the de--ceas--" and his tears suddenly gushed forth, his hand
fell upon his plate, the plate was overturned, flew from the table, and
was broken. He sat stupidly, holding the spoon, and tears like a
never-ceasing fountain flowed, flowed in streams down upon his napkin.

He did not live long after this. I heard of his death recently. What was
strange, though, was that the circumstances attending it somewhat
resembled those connected with the death of Pulkheria Ivanovna. One day,
Afanasy Ivanovitch decided to take a short stroll in the garden. As he
went slowly down the path with his